Page 36 of Hooked on Emerson
The word hung between them, inadequate for what they'd shared yet somehow all she seemed willing to offer. Emerson feltsomething in his chest tighten, a pressure that wasn't quite pain but bordered on it.
"Of course," he said, matching her tone though it cost him to do so. "That's what friends do."
Friends. The word felt wrong in his mouth, too small for what they'd become to each other. He almost winced as it left his lips, like swallowing something bitter and trying not to show it. But he wouldn't push, wouldn't demand more than she was ready to give. He'd meant what he'd said about not wanting to be the reason she stayed if staying wasn't what she truly wanted. Last night hadn't changed that, regardless of how much it had meant to him.
They worked side by side throughout the morning, emptying buckets, mopping floors, assessing damage. The familiar rhythm they'd established over weeks of working together remained, but something had changed. There was a new awareness that made each accidental touch, each shared glance, more meaningful.
At one point, their hands brushed as they both reached for the same bucket. Ava pulled back as if burned, a flush creeping up her neck. Emerson pretended not to notice, though the small rejection lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.
"The roof's going to need professional work," Emerson said, examining a particularly bad leak above the register. "Beyond what I can fix with patches."
Ava nodded, wringing out a mop into a bucket of gray water. "I figured as much." A strand of hair had escaped her bun, curling against her cheek. He fought the urge to reach out and tuck it back, remembering how freely he'd touched her just hours before.
"I know a guy in Fairview. Does good work, fair prices." He pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "I can call him today if you want."
She hesitated, something flickering across her face too quickly to read. A shadow passed behind her eyes, like a door quietly closing. "Let me think about it. It's a big expense."
The words themselves were reasonable, practical even. But there was something in her tone, a hesitation that made him wonder if she was thinking about Seattle again. About leaving. About whether it made sense to invest in repairs if she wasn't going to stay.
"Sure," he said, pocketing his phone again. "No rush."
But there was, wasn't there? A deadline looming that neither of them had mentioned this morning. The Seattle offer that needed an answer. The decision that would determine not just her future but, in some way, his as well. At least, the future he'd begun to imagine with her in it.
By midday, they'd cleaned up the worst of the water damage. The floor was dry, if still slightly warped in places. Buckets remained positioned beneath stubborn leaks, but the dripping had slowed to an occasional pat rather than the steady rhythm of the night before.
Emerson watched as Ava called the florist supply company to order replacements for the stock that had been damaged. She stood with her back to him, one hip leaned against the counter, fingers idly tracing the edge of an order form as she spoke. Her voice was professional and efficient as she listed items and quantities, yet there was a weariness in the slope of her shoulders that made him want to cross the room, to press his palms against that tension and ease it away.
Instead, he gathered his tools, packing them methodically into his toolbox. Each wrench, each screwdriver, each measuring tape returned to its proper place, the familiar routine steadying him when nothing else seemed certain. The metal clinked softly against metal, the sound oddly final in the quiet shop.
He felt Ava watching him from across the room, though every time he glanced up, she seemed absorbed in some task, like adjusting a flower arrangement, straightening a stack of order forms, wiping an already clean counter. The careful dance of avoidance was becoming its own kind of intimacy.
"I should check on those flowers," he said finally, closing the toolbox with a definitive click. "Make sure they're okay in my refrigerator."
Ava looked up from the clipboard where she'd been inventorying damage. "Right. Of course."
"Do you want to come with me?" The question slipped out before he could consider it fully. "We could bring them back here, now that the power's on. Or..." He trailed off, leaving the alternative unspoken.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he'd come to recognize as a sign of uncertainty. "I should stay here. There's still so much to do, and the delivery truck is coming at three."
"Right." He nodded, accepting the gentle rejection for what it was. The weight of his toolbox seemed to increase in his hand, heavy with more than metal and wood. "I'll bring them back then. Before three."
"Thank you." She set down the clipboard, taking a step toward him and then stopping, as if unsure of the appropriate distance to maintain. "For everything. Really."
There was genuine gratitude in her voice, warmth in her eyes despite the careful space she kept between them. But something was missing—the openness they'd shared in the darkness, the vulnerability that had made last night more than just physical connection.
"That's what I'm here for," he said, the words coming out more stiffly than he intended. "To fix things."
A flash of something—hurt? regret?—crossed her face, but it was gone before he could be sure. Her fingers tightened aroundthe clipboard she still held, knuckles whitening slightly. "You do that very well."
The words hung between them, layered with meanings neither seemed ready to untangle. Emerson picked up his toolbox, suddenly eager to be outside, away from the confused web of emotions that filled the small space between them. "I'll see you later then."
She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture that looked protective, defensive even. "Okay. And Emerson?"
He paused at the door, looking back at her. The morning light caught in her hair, highlighting strands of deep copper among the brown. Despite the careful distance in her posture, there was something in her eyes that made his heart twist—a question, a plea, a confusion that matched his own.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow," she said softly. "For the canoeing and the bookshop. Is that still...?"
